


Something New

by Dunaven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11 year old Sam, Age Difference, M/M, Predator/Prey, Rich Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunaven/pseuds/Dunaven
Summary: Mr. Smith finally finds what he's looking for.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 24
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lunch Money](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834363) by [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey). 



> Just started reading Hellhoundsprey's Lunch-verse  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834363
> 
> This ficlet was inspired by that.  
> I'll have to finish to be sure if it works as a prequel. But here is my idea in its unrefined glory.

It’s simple really. Dean is looking for perfection. A man of his wealth and taste will accept no less.

It should be easy to spot a diamond amid all this mediocrity and crap, but neither the mall, nor the McDonald's, nor the screaming, running scamps on the ball field provide that "je ne sais quoi." He'll know it when he sees it.

It's a miracle, and somewhat foolhardy, that he's resuming the search after his last poulet scorned him so cruelly. The out-of-court settlement cost him a fortune. Like a man spurned and burned in a divorce, he'd sworn celibacy before suffering that humiliation and financial castration again.  
Alas, the heart wants what it needs and the body will have what it craves.

Finally, he accepts an invitation to the winter concert at the elementary school where he attended, some 35 years ago. Of course, they come simpering with their hands out, because Dean Smith happily endows the arts, especially to benefit poor kids like he used to be. Smile and hand over the check. Flash. Another article in the Times about the local millionaire philanthropist. And a generous tax break. Everybody wins.

He hasn't any other plans and it's always amusing to watch the cherubs play. They're too young to provide any real entertainment, but it's fun to speculate which ones might be ripe in a few years. Never dreamed he'd find Perfection in the sixth-grade marching band. Squeaky trumpets and ratatat snare drums be damned. There's a breath-stopping, shaggy-haired angel playing the flute.

He only manages to contain himself by digging his thumbnail into the meat of his index finger. The pain curbs his mounting enthusiasm. Every few minutes, he forces his eyes to scan the whole band, but his gaze always lands back on that boy. He schools his smile into something calm and far less hungry than his churning insides feel.

When it's over, Dean skips the photo op, quickly shakes the principal's hand and makes a good excuse to get away. He has his driver pull a block away from the school, hops out in the dusk of evening, hides behind bushes, skulks close enough to watch the kids and parents pour out of the double doors. If he's seen, he has an explanation ready.

As a gift from on high (because Dean Smith is a good man), his angel waves to buddies and starts walking in Dean's direction. Alone, flute case tucked under his arm. No gloves, no hat. In the near-dark, without parent supervision.

It must be a little creepy when a grown man lunges from behind a bush. The kid sure as hell does jump.  
Dean laughs it off and holds up both Italian leather-gloved hands to show he's harmless.

"Hey. It's all right," he says. "I’m just... I lost my watch. Do you think you could help me?"

The kid glances over his shoulder back at the school, distant but near enough to see the light pouring through the front doors. Totally safe to mimic this stranger in scouring the ground.

"I was at the concert," Dean says, still pretending to hunt. "You were terrific. You all were."

In truth, he’d seen no one else.

"Thanks," the kid mumbles.

"What's your name?"

At that, he looks up. A more patient man would wait. Let a few days pass. Send someone else to find an inconspicuous in. Dean didn't get where he is by being cautious. He's fierce and decisive where it matters. Tonight, it matters that he is direct, but also that he doesn't startle the kid.

"I’m Dean," he says and smiles.

"I know."

"You know?"

"You’re that rich guy who paid for the new gym."

It sounds like an indictment. Dean rarely has to defend his charitable giving. "I always enjoyed PE as a kid."

"Hm."

"You don't like sports?"

"Sports don’t like me."

Dean chuckles. "Fair enough."

"Found it."

The kid takes two steps, leans and lifts the watch. Too soon. More time. Just a minute.  
But Dean widens his smile and plays into the moment.

"Wow! Thank you. How can I repay you?"

"Not necessary."

The kid is already walking away, dragging a grown man's heart along behind him.

"Your name," Dean calls out, although it's insane.

Anyone could hear.

The kid turns backwards, still walking when he answers, "Sam."

"Sam." Dean is still repeating the name as Perfection rounds the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs Wesson, I’m sure you already know you have an exceptional boy."

The bedraggled woman with the thinning, mouse-brown hair might have once been beautiful. Right now, she glances at her son like she’s not even sure of the meaning of the word. The idea that something exceptional might have popped out of her is downright ridiculous. She pulls a pack of Kools from the pocket of her washed-out grey sweater, lights it and takes a long drag before asking, "So, what are you saying?"

Dean has been in the apartment for nearly twenty minutes, saying the same thing. He swallows his exasperation and repeats, "I could use an assistant. Someone I can trust."

"To do what?"

"Chores, mostly."

Sam frowns. Dean subdues the smile.

"Tasks and helpful assignments around the house."

"He’s got homework."

"Of course, he does. I wouldn’t interfere with his schooling. I was thinking of weekends."

"Every weekend?"

"Sometimes I travel for work but in general, yes. Most weekends."

"Like Saturday?"

She's really not the sharpest tool.

"I’d send a car for him Friday evening and return him on Sunday."

"Two nights?"

"You’d have the weekend to yourself."

Every good salesman knows you have to make the client aware of why they need the product. When was the last time this woman had a weekend to herself, except to work 16 hour shifts at the Walgreens? Yes. Dean always does his homework. Her brow raises for a moment before her face smooths again.

"You’d feed him?"

"Of course. And compensate you for your trouble."

The woman may be wondering what trouble but she’s smart enough not to ask. She taps her ashes onto a plate. "Compensate?" 

"I’d pay Sam for his work. And it only seems appropriate to reward you as well for raising such a fine, upstanding young man. Say $100 bucks a week?"

A bonanza, considering her current $10.10/hour rate of pay.  
She looks at him full on now. Hell of a pokerface, this one, but she's taking him seriously now. Had already assessed the suit and the coat and the shoes and the haircut, all of which cost most than the rent in this hellhole. 

"Or $250?"

She scratches her head. "I was thinking more like 3."

"That’s fine."

"A week?"

"Yes, ma’am."

The things she could do with that money. She's already plotting and Dean doesn't need to know. He won't miss it.

Mrs. Wesson looks at her only begotten son and says, "It’s Friday right now."

"Yes, ma’am. It is."

"You heard the man, Sammy. Go pack your shit."

"He doesn't actually need to bring anything," Dean says, holding his eagerness on a tight reign.

The quicker they get out of this dump, the sooner he can... Show Sam everything beyond these peeling walls.

"Well, at least some underwear and a toothbrush," mom says helpfully.

"I’ll take care of all that. And then you’ll have it at the house."

Sam is still sitting at the round table, eyes wide and incredulous. Hands rolled up, possibly tense from being spoken of as if he wasn't in the room. Dean makes a mental note not to do that again.

"Are you ready?" he asks the boy directly.

"What?"

"All those As on his report card," Sam's mother says and slaps the back of his head with the hand not holding the smoke." Still likes to act stupid. You’re going with Mr. Smith. and you’re going to do what he says or else I’ll light you right up, you hear?"

"Mom."

"Move it, slow poke."

She pulls the chair out from under him and Sam recovers in time not to land on the floor. He ducks into his room and slams the door. For a moment, Dean fears he’ll have to insist or compel or coerce, but the kid returns with his arms around a thick book and an uncertain scowl on his adorable face.

"It’ll be great," Dean assures with a hand on his shoulder. "You’ll love the house. We'll do your room however you want."

He keeps the excitement balled up in a tight wad in the center of his gut. If it turns out Sam Wesson is not what Dean was looking for, he’ll send the boy home unharmed. No foul.


	3. Chapter 3

“Welcome,” Dean says.

He wants to say “home” but that might startle his young guest. After all, it's just for a couple of days. A trial period, really.

Has it really been five years since Cole was here? Since a child’s laughter brightened these halls? That didn’t end so well. This will be better. Dean has a feeling.

“Make yourself ... Comfortable,” he says and walks to the door. “I’ll be just down the hall.”

It’s best to give him time to acclimate.

“When you get hungry, give a shout.”

But Dean can’t just walk away. He stands there, looking his fill.

The room hasn’t changed since Cole’s days. From time to time, Dean would stop by, sit on the bed and sigh. Never cry. God, he’s not some woman. Besides, even as he was going through the proceedings, he knew that all things work out for those who stay focused. He wasn’t losing Cole. He was making space for something better. Something new.s

Dean doesn’t know Sams exact taste, but the toys, games, books, and iMac should be enough to keep him busy for a while. To make it so he never wants to leave.

“You like the comforter?”

Sam shrugs at the Cowboys emblem.  
Right. Sports don’t like him.

He’s a gangly thing. Tall for his age.  
Dean built the court out back for Lanny, his first. Cole was more of a football boy, but Sam’s physique was made for bball. Dean’s got enough game to show the kid a thing or two. Then, he’ll sign him up for a county league and get Seb to drive him to practices if he has to.  
A little boy ought to play some kind of ball.

“Do you prefer Spider-Man?”

Sam looks skeptical.

“Dragons?”

At that, he nods. Little nerdling.

“Got it.”

Dean had released his staff this weekend, so has to go into the attic himself and dig through Lanny’s things. He hadn’t realized he missed that little shit until he digs out the old baseball bat. Every now and again, he gets an harvard.edu email and smiles.

Hey Dean,  
How’s it going? I’m doing well. Classes are a bitch this season.  
See you around,  
L

It’s not much. No affection between the lines. It’s not clear what he remembers or understands from their years together. But Dean remembers everything, even though he was too cautious to capture any of it on film. Lanny’s mother probably puts him up to it, but the correspondence keeps him sure he did the right thing. Taking him in, loving him, letting him go.

If Sam is a perfect as he seems, Dean will bring the best out of him, too.

He helps Sam make the bed, slipping behind him, leaning over his back to make sure the sheets are properly tucked. Military corners.  
Dean leans close enough to breathe his cheap shampoo and priceless sweat. Then, he retreats to his office, locks the door and plops into his chair where he beats off furiously.

***

He gives it a couple of hours and then knocks on Sam’s door. The kid grunts a reply and Dean leans in. As expected, on the computer. Probably doesn’t have one at home.

“Hey, let’s go out back and shoot a few.”

Sam’s nose curls and his eyes never leave the screen.

“You know how to play horse?”

“I hate basketball.”

“That’s because you suck. When you get good at it, you’ll love it.”

Sam shakes his head. Dean rests his hand over Sam’s on the trackpad. “Twenty minutes.”

Too-short shorts and a sleeveless Lakers jersey, vestiges of Cole’s days, he follows Dean onto the court. Dean dribbles between his legs and passes. Sam stumbles to catch it. When his arms fly out, it’s the first time Dean sees the bruises from wrist to shoulder.

He catches his breath and barely manages not to yell.

“Your mom do that?”

If she doesn’t know how to conduct herself, Mrs. Wesson will have an accident today.

Sam shakes his heads, hugs the ball to his spindly chest. Has no idea how close he came to being an orphan. And then Dean’s responsibility. It’s nothing he’d do lightly. He’s not out to take the boys unless that’s what they need.

“Do kids mess with you?

Sam’s silence is an answer. It’d be easy to send some bigger bully out there to bust a few sixth-grade kneecaps. But, that’s not going to solve the problem.

It’s not easy being the only pale face in the school photo. This Dean knows. But he’d used it to his advantage. Stole cigarettes by the pound and sold them at a 50% profit. Eventually, he upgraded to weed, then smack, then crack. Packed heat, but didn't wind up on the wrong side of the grass like some of his homies from in the day. Never did a single day behind bars. At 22, cashed out and bought a couple of industrially zoned property. The rest is history and not the point.

The point is that if Sam acts like a punk, they’ll treat him like one, regardless of skin color.

"You out there bein' a lil bitch?"

When Dean turns on his 'hood inflection, Sam's eyes nearly fall from the socket. It's startling to hear a middle-aged white guy talk like a common corner dweller, but that's who he was 25 years ago.

Dean crosses the court and stands directly in front of Sam. He knocks the ball from his arms and catches the back of the jersey when he scrambles after it.

“Ball your fist.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Dean plucks the center of his chest.

“Make a fist, Sam.”

The boy sighs dramatically and curls up his fingers like a roly-poly. This is the plight of fatherless boys everywhere. He ought to know. His own father was so busy with his own demons that he didn’t have time to teach Dean shit other than how not to be.

He holds Sam’s wrist firm and peels the thumb free. Tucks it over the fingers.

“You hit somebody with your thumb in, you’ll break it.”

Also, first-hand knowledge.

“Now, strike.”

Dean holds up his hand as a target. Sam’s first punch misses and nearly sends him toppling onto his face. Remarkably pitiful.

“Try again.”

When he finally makes contact, it’s without much force, but Sam smiles, visibly proud of himself. Never hit anything in his life, the poor little bastard. Boys need to play ball. They need to hit shit regularly. They need a man’s guidance, a firm hand and a breed of friendship mom can’t provide.

Is mom going to smack Sam upside the head and then bounce on his toes while the boy blinks in confusion? Not likely

“Come on,” Dean says, dukes high. “Try to hit me.”

Sam doesn’t have a chance, but after a few more slaps to his temple, he’s willing to try.

"Come on. That’s all you got? You gonna be a lil bitch the rest of your life?"

Dean blocks all but the last pathetic, open-handed attempted. This one, he lets in and takes it with a bit of drama, pretending this runt could do any damage. Sam stands with his mouth wide, awed that he actually struck an adult and kind of amazed at his own prowess.

Feigning anger, Dean growls, bends his knees and tucks his shoulder under Sam’s ribs. He lifts him from the ground and spins him around as if preparing for a classic WWF bodyslam. Sam squeals - it’s not clear whether in horror or delight until Dean sets him on his feet.

They both go to the laminated hardwood, laughing like mad.

“You know,” Dean says, catching his breath. “This is going to require professional help.”

He knows just the guy - Jiujitsu, Judo, Tae Kwon Do. The works. When Sam earns his first orange belt, Dean’ll build him a dojo.

***

After they’ve showered (no peeking), Dean warms one of dinners from Greta. Sam slurps up his peas, but prods the rest with his fork.

“Everything all right?” Dean asks.

It is a big transition at first. That’s why there’s no rush. He won’t touch him, or even sit too close, or ask if he ever wakes up wet. Not yet. There’s time for everything.

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. You don’t have to do anything. Just keep me company.”

Sam’s skeptical face is adorable: one raised brow and his mouth scrunched to the side.

“But,” Dean says. “If you decide you like me, and you want to make me happy, there are things... We’ll get to that. Why don’t you eat?”

Why one boy and not the other? Why is it more than a cute face or an eye color or a tone of voice or a temperament - but a perfect storm of traits and an unquantifiable feeling in his core that makes Dean know this is the one? It's like asking why it rains or why the sky is blue. There are scientific answers, but the heart wants to sing, because it's so. That's how the world is anything else would be unfathomable.

Sam frowns at his plate. “What is this?”

“Steak.”

“Is it meat?”

Dean pauses, processing the question before he answers, “Yes it is. Do you like it?”

The boy shrugs.

“Would you prefer something else?”

“Pizza?”

“If you like, sure.” Dean puts down his fork and wipes his mouth before digging into his pocket for his phone. "Plain cheese?"

"Maybe pineapple," Sam asks, as if it's the height of luxury.

"Pineapple, it is."

Only the best for his boy.


	4. Chapter 4

The first three weekends go off hitch-free. Sam is at the pickup spot and eager to come over. All he ever wants to eat is pizza or peas. But they’ve gotten as far as cuddling while watching the Karate Kid and Dean is over the moon with his selection.

By the way, Sam still stinks at basketball, but he takes to Judo like a monkey to its tree. His twelfth birthday is in a few months, the perfect occasion to break ground on a dojo, adjacent to Lanny’s ball court.

However, on this particular Friday evening, Dean steps out of the shower to learn that he has missed a call from Seb, his driver. Sam isn’t at the library. Not on the front steps, as usual, not inside and no one has seen him.

The flare shoots through Dean’s system. He’d seen this coming. Had recognized Mrs. Wesson as the type to jack up the fee as soon as she recognizes what her boy is worth. He takes a few deep breaths before speedialing her number.  
The woman answers on the fourth ring, whispering, “Mr. Smith? What is it? I’m with a customer.”

“Where is Sam?”

He’d intended to sound calm and in control, but the anger bubbling in the back of his throat bursts through in a shout.

“Ain’t he with you?”

“No, he is…”

Dean believes her and hangs up. He ignores her first couple of texts and then, opens his eyes and replies:

\- Everything’s fine. He was in the restroom. Home Sunday, as usual.

Next, he texts Sam’s cell: a brand new iPhone, courtesy of Dean Smith, of course. Before that, he’d had a 7-11 flip-top burner like somebody’s grandpa.

Sam is also wearing designer shoes, jeans and sweatshirt. He’s got a haircut - not too much off the top, just shaped up. Dean likes it just over his eyes.

He can’t, of course, call the cops. Their third question is 'relationship to the child.'  
Sure, Dean could answer “uncle” like he’s told Sam to do if they’re ever out in public and some nosy person asks. Or, Dean could be honest and see what kind of reaction Sugar Daddy gets him.  
The truth is, he’s done nothing illegal, nothing illicit unless it’s against some law to take better care of kid than his parents. To feed, clothe, encourage and teach him. To hold him close and inhale his scent for two precious hours while that little cutie Jayden Smith does his thing in China.  
What Dean wouldn’t do to that kid?  
But there’s a stark difference between Jayden and Sam. Jayden is a spoiled little brat. There’s no way around it. His father was the king of Hollywood for a solid decade. He was raised in money, steeped in fame. There is nothing he can’t have. Those Smiths might even be wealthier than Dean.  
Sam is every bit as beautiful as young Jayden, possibly brighter, and they’ll find his talent. To top it all off, he’s a mudpuppy. In addition to providing all Dean needs, he’ll be grateful forever. Look at Lanny. Another email came in from Harvard just yesterday.

_Dear D,_  
_It’s kind of lonely out here and cold._  
_Also broke._  
_Thinking of you._  
_Your Lanny_

Cole was a loss, but you can’t win them all. Sam is perfection. That’s what matters now. And Dean needs to find him.

He pulls on a shirt, steps into his sneakers and jogs to the front door - mind racing to devise a plan. He’ll call in a few guys. They’ll start at the library and go in ever-widening concentric circles. And if he finds out Flo Wesson is bullshitting him, he’ll—

Dean opens the front door and stops short. There, on the top step, hugging his knees to his chest, is his boy. He smiles a little, texts Seb that all is well, then he quietly eases down beside him.

He knocks his shoulder against Sam’s. “You can’t just not be where we agreed on. Even if you’re coming here. It’s not safe.”

All kind of weirdos out there.

“I’m going to have to punish you. You know that, right?”

Ideas and sick sick possibilities swirl around his mind like a rum and vanilla ice cream cocktail. A sound spanking seems most fitting. Bare bottom. That’s the only way to learn. Sam looks up, abject sorrow in his purple-socketed eyes.

“Aw, damn.”

Sam bites his lip and drops his face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

It’s only now that Dean realizes his shoes are missing. $600 Balenciagas. Dean’s fault. It was stupid. He got excited and didn’t think about where the fuck Sam goes to school and with what kind of element. All he’d thought was how good the kid would look, how everyone would know he was being taken care of. Of course, he’d forbidden Sam to tell where he’d gotten the new things. It didn’t matter now.

The shoeless pup leans his forehead on Dean’s chest and apologizes again.

"They said they'd cut off my feet."

“Okay. It’s okay.”

It’s not fucking okay. It’s infuriating. But Dean doesn’t want to spank Sam anymore. He wants to load up his Glock and go thug hunting. What kind of asshole would do this to a little kid?

But he’s not going to leave Sam, not in this fragile state of mind. He stands, helps Sam to his dirty-socked feet and then lifts him. Carries him inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

Sam is a scrawny kid, but these bones are heavier than they look. Dean doesn’t complain. He takes the marble staircase slowly and delivers Sammybaby to his bed. He peels off the filthy socks and tosses them into Sam’s hamper.

Sam’s feet are cold. Dean holds them between his palms for a long while, searching out Sam’s eyes.

“You’re all right now,” Dean says. “We’ll get you some Skechers. You got a skateboard?”

Sam shakes his head.

Dean used to be a vicious skateboarder when he was younger, outrunning shop owners with his pockets full of loot. In the days of stolen Snickers for dinner. He’ll have to invest in some pads so he doesn’t kill himself trying to show off for this kid.

He kisses the inside of Sam’s ankle and the boy freezes solid.

“You want to make me happy, Sam?”

Sam sucks in a loud breath and nods. Dean presses the sole of one of the boy’s feet to his stiff crotch.

“That’s a good boy.”

With one hand, he opens his jeans and pulls them down around his ass. He’s hard as an anvil. Has been since he started carrying Sam, thinking forward to fucking him that way. It won’t be long until he’s ready. Not tonight, but so soon Dean is about to burst with anticipation.

What Sam is ready for is a kiss to his stinky sole and to have each one of his precious his toes sucked. Face wide open in awe. Knees jutted out like a skinny butterfly while Dean holds his ankles, presses his soft soles together and angles his hips to slide between them.

It should have been hugs. Sweet kisses as he was falling off to sleep. Dean can read the shock in Sam’s wide eyes. His mouth falls open, too. And just as Dean is about to back off, put himself away and press restart, Sam’s hand flies to his own crotch. He whimpers and in less than a minute, Dean groans, shooting all over the boy’s pretty feet and the hems of his slim-fitting, True Religion jeans.

There’s come on the boy, come on the bed, come on Dean’s fingers and now, come on Sam’s lips. He won’t open for it. Curls his nose: sweet Sammy skepticism.

Dean uses the corner of the blanket to clean himself, fixes his jeans and crawls up beside his boy.

“You all right?”

Sam nods, but he’s still pawing himself, hips rolling in tight little waves. Dean turns him onto his side, opens Sam’s pants and takes care of it for him. Had forgotten the magic sensation of a little boy’s prick between his thumb and two fingers. The sweet pressure of a small ass straining back for more contact. The soft moan and muscles rigid as a board for they twitch and shake free a small spurt of Sam’s pleasure.  
Dean would never waste it. Licks the boy’s slick from between his fingers. Savors it on his tongue before he swallows.

It’s simple. Dean was looking for perfection. A man of his wealth and taste can accept no less.


End file.
